Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(101)

“Very good, Mr. Klein. Please remain there, and I will come down to escort you.”

“No problem.” While he waited he texted his date for the evening.

Might be a little late, baby. Got a big fish on the line.

He checked the time before he pushed his ’link back in his pocket. Maybe more than a little late, figuring an hour for the meeting, more if it went really well. Then he’d need to go home, shower, change, get buffed for the night.

She’d wait, he thought with a smirk. People were going to get used to waiting for Joe Klein.

He spotted the droid, moved forward.

“Mr. Klein.”

“Yeah.”

“Please put these on.” The droid handed him a hat and a pair of dark sunshades.

“What for, man?”

“Mr. Trevor prefers to keep his business and his visitors private, even from building security.”

“Whatever.” Amused, Joe put on the hat, the shades, and went inside with the droid.

The place had everything—totally upscale, moving maps, fancy to the ult shops, women with f**kable bodies, men who looked important without trying.

The droid led the way through, stopped at a short bank of silver-fronted elevators, then stood for a scan before using a swipe card, then a manual code.

“That’s a lot of lockdown for an elevator.”

“Private elevator, limited access.”

Joe stepped in—silver walls, even a black leather bench, and a pot of white flowers. In a frigging elevator.

Yeah, this was his life—a preview.

Once again the droid swiped, keyed in, submitted to a scan. “So, what’s the boss like?” Joe asked as the elevator rose without a sound.

“Mr. Trevor is very particular and very private. He looks forward to your arrival.”

“Excellent.” Joe patted his briefcase. “I’ve got a lot to show him.”

They stepped off into a wide, private foyer. More flowers, a mural of the city painted on the walls.

And for a third time, the droid was scanned, used the swipe, the code, then stepped back to allow Joe to enter.

He saw the view first—the wall of glass with the skyline, the lights, the scope of wealth behind it.

He began to smile as the door clicked shut, the lock snicked behind him.

Then he frowned, noting the clear plastic covering the glossy floor of the spacious living area.

“What? He’s just moving in.”

“You could say that,” Reinhold commented, and choking up some on the bat, swung it hard.

Eve sat with the relatives, as she collectively thought of them. Mostly female here, and kids apparently considered too young to join in the war being raged outside.

She liked them. How could she help it? Even if she didn’t know exactly what to do with them, from the woman she couldn’t quite get used to calling Granny (I mean, really, how weird was that) to the fat-cheeked baby girl (assuming the pink band around her bald head meant girl) who stared at her endlessly while she sucked on one of those plug deals.

Some of them did handwork—crocheting or knitting or whatever people did with balls of yarn and long needles. Or had tea, or wine as she did, or beer.

Most chattered happily. Sinead did, not even missing a beat when one of the younger women passed her the infant who made mewling noises like a starving cat.

“This is the newest of us,” Sinead told Eve. “Keela. Seven weeks in the world.”

Keela wore a pink and white knit cap with a pom-pom over what was probably another bald head. She let out a distinct belch when Sinead rubbed her back.

“There now, that’s better now, isn’t it? She’s fed and dry and happy if you’d like to hold her.”

Rather hold a ticking homemade boomer, Eve thought, and managed an “Um …” before—thanks be to God—the front door burst open and the ragged and motley football crew charged, limped, all but crawled inside.

“Look at the lot of you!” That came from Granny holding court by the fire. “Dirty and wet and soiling the floor, you are! Outside and hose off, or up to bathe the lot of you. Not a one of you are welcome in here until you do. You as well,” she added, pointing a sharp finger at Roarke.

“Granny!” Sean sent up a protest. “We left our boots at the door, and we could eat a cow right from the field we’re that starved.”

“Not until you’re washed.”

Eve saw her own escape as everyone who’d come in began to slink off again.

“I’ll, ah, be a minute.”

She dashed for it, and managed to make it to the bedroom as Roarke stripped off his sodden, ruined clothes.

“It was a sad and pitiful rout,” he announced. “I’m shamed to have been a part of it.”

“Buck up. I’m just going to sneak into my office for a few minutes, read your report, check a couple things.”

“It’ll be dinner within the hour. If you can’t make it down, I’ll send your regrets.”

“It shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”

“I’ll come along myself, see what you’ve got, before I go down.”

“Good.”

She made her escape, went straight for Roarke’s report.

She could tell he’d dumbed it down to layman’s terms, but it still took her time to decipher.